


Bitter Reunion

by Corona



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Family Feels, Gen, Grief/Mourning, Human Noble Origin
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-23
Updated: 2018-11-23
Packaged: 2019-08-28 00:14:23
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,892
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16712776
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Corona/pseuds/Corona
Summary: Somewhere in the Korcari Wilds, a stroke of luck and a happy coincidence bring a very-much-alive Fergus back into his sister's life. It would be a happier reunion if she did not have to explain what happened to the rest of their family, but Saorla will take what she can get, for while there is life, there is still hope.





	Bitter Reunion

The camp is quiet, mostly. Little other than the crackling of the fire breaks the silence. Somewhere, Sten is playing with Lorcan, not that he would ever admit it; Morrigan is perusing Flemeth's grimoire by her own fire; Alistair and Leliana converse quietly just off to Saorla's right; Wynne reads a book that Saorla found for her in the Circle Tower; Shale, as ever, is on guard duty, as is Zevran. Bodahn counts coins, and Sandal enchants a dagger. None of this is out of the ordinary. She could almost forget that there is a Blight and civil war on, things are so peaceful.

Much like Bodahn, Saorla sits by the fire and counts coins. She is not satisfied with how much they have—only one sovereign and a few silvers and coppers, not much to buy the whole party more health poultices, lyrium potions, and other such necessities. In the attack on Highever, she rescued nearly 50 sovereigns from her father's belongings in his and her mother's rooms, but she got through those with unfortunate speed. She will have to find more money somewhere, or soon they will start running into serious logistical issues. She wonders if she could convince Bodahn to make a small donation, so to speak, and immediately dismisses the thought.

Zevran's footsteps in the grass disrupt the quiet somewhat, and Saorla looks expectantly up at him as he approaches. He's not been on duty long, only half an hour, and every shift is two hours in length. If he's leaving his post now, she must assume that he has something to report. "Any trouble, Zevran?" she asks.

"Not trouble, exactly," Zevran says. "But there's a man approaching the campsite. When I asked him to state his purpose, he wouldn't answer—he just kept walking forward."

Saorla frowns and pulls herself to her feet, laying her coin aside to be dealt with later. "Is he armed?"

"No," Zevran says. "Far from it, actually—he's barefoot and shirtless, and he doesn't look like he's in any state to attack. He has wounds, only half-healed by the looks of it. He barely seemed to notice me even though I called out to him—he might perhaps be feverish, as well."

She absorbs this and slowly nods. "Right. Anything else I should know?"

Zevran pauses a moment, then says, "If I may, I'd say that he looks rather like you."

Her head snaps up to meet his gaze. "Like _me_?" she says quietly. "Explain."

"He's tall," Zevran says, "but not much taller than you. He's got hair the very same colour as yours. His eyes were brown, not blue, but I thought I saw something of you in his face, regardless. Maybe I was wrong."

She considers that, as well, and for a moment, she dares to hope. After Ostagar, she gave him up for dead—there was no way that he and his men could have survived the full might of the darkspawn horde, which they must have undoubtedly stumbled into at some point around the time of the battle. But as there had been no evidence for either case, part of her had continued to hope, and throughout her few days' journeying in the Wilds, towards Lothering, she had kept an eye out for him. Since their return to the Wilds to deal with Flemeth, she has still kept an eye out. It has been barely a month—perhaps there is still a chance.

A small chance, maybe—but a chance is a chance.

"Bring him to me, Zevran," Saorla says. "I'd like to speak with him." Zevran nods and heads back the way he came to collect the maybe-stranger. She watches him go, then looks up and calls out, "Wynne, will you come over here, please?"

Wynne looks up at her from across the camp, immediately lays her book aside, and gets up. Soon enough, she is at Saorla's side. "I heard your discussion," she says. "You wish me to heal this man?"

"Possibly," Saorla says. "I wanted you to be ready, just in case." Wynne smiles and nods; out of the corner of her eye, Saorla sees Alistair and Leliana look up curiously from their conversation.

They do not have to wait long before Zevran returns, and immediately, Saorla's eyes shift from him to the man following just behind. He is broad, and a little taller than her, and brown-eyed and brown-haired, and he has the beginnings of a full beard and not the stubble that she remembers and a face that resembles their father's the way hers resembles their mother's and _Maker's breath_ , it _is_ him.

The breath leaves her in a rush, and even as he steps into the light of the campfire, showing more clearly the badly-healed wounds littering his chest and arms and a face flushed with fever, she cannot help but feel overjoyed and relieved in a way that she has not since Highever. A broad smile crosses her face, and she steps towards him eagerly, her long strides quickly covering the ground. "Fergus!" she cries, opening her arms even as she realises that he likely won't be receptive to her touch in his present condition. "Andraste's flaming sword, _Fergus!_ "

He looks up at her. In the light of the fire, Saorla can see that his eyes are dull and unfocused from the fever, but they narrow, and perhaps the barest hint of recognition comes into them as she approaches him. She comes to a halt a few feet away and waits for him to respond.

Fergus is visibly swaying on his feet. His arms, thinner than they used to be, are shaking, his eyes dart from place to place, and the recognition that she had so briefly spotted is already gone. He smells about as bad as he looks, and not just because he almost certainly hasn't bathed in weeks—at least part of the stench is coming from his open wounds. _Infection,_ she notes, somewhat clinically. _He's probably delirious as well as feverish. Maker's blood, he's lucky to have stumbled across us when he did. He might not have lasted much longer._ The thought makes her shudder, but she remembers that he is here now, and in safe hands, and she is at once comforted.

His mouth opens, and he speaks. "Saorla…?" The word is drawled in the manner of the delirious, but she is relieved to hear it, for she has missed hearing her brother's voice, and it means that at least part of him still recognises her.

"Fergus," she repeats. Her smile is only growing broader as she takes another step towards him. "Oh, _Maker_ , it's good to see—"

She gets no further, although this is hardly a surprise. Fergus sways on his feet again and then collapses to his knees. In the sudden silence, Saorla can hear him panting, gasping for breath, and she knows that he must be attended to. She steps back and glances at the Circle mage. "Wynne, see to him. This is my brother, Fergus—do everything you can."

Wynne nods. "I will do everything in my power for him. I only ask that you give me room to work."

Saorla does not protest. If her staying by Fergus' side will only distract Wynne and not help matters, then she will keep well away. She watches as Wynne approaches Fergus and turns him onto his back, and she utters a silent prayer to the Maker, thanking him for delivering Fergus to her alive and asking that he might _stay_ alive. That done, she steps back and returns to counting coins, and she concentrates well enough, even despite what is going on just outside of her vision and the knowledge of what she has to tell him that is pressing on her mind.

Sometime later, Wynne approaches her and kneels. Saorla looks up at her and waits, not needing to ask.

"I've done all that I can for him," Wynne says. "Most of his wounds are healed, those that are not are no longer infected, and his fever has broken. I believe he is also no longer delirious. I put a spell on him to send him to sleep, but when he awakens, he should be able to talk to you."

She exhales in relief and smiles widely; Wynne returns it. "Thank you, Wynne," she says. "You may have just saved his life. He's the only family that I have left—I owe you a debt."

"There is none," Wynne tells her, just as Saorla had half-expected she would. "I was glad to help. I will remain with him during the night to ensure that his fever does not return, but afterwards, I expect that he will be fine."

"Praise the Maker," Saorla says. "What would I do without you, Wynne?" The older woman chuckles and returns to Fergus' side; Saorla watches her go and then shifts her gaze to her brother. Indeed, he already looks—and smells—considerably better, with the majority of his wounds now faded to dull red lines and all the rest looking like they're well on their way to healing. His face is no longer so flushed, and his chest rises and falls evenly as he sleeps. He looks so peaceful that Saorla nearly smiles to see it, but then the image of Oriana and Oren's bloodied, lifeless bodies comes back into her mind, and her heart plummets. She closes her eyes and sighs.

_Sleep well, brother,_ she thinks. _This is the last of peace and joy that you will know for the longest time. When you awaken, and we have spoken, there will be nought but grief and pain for you. But how to tell him…?_

For the remainder of the night, that is the question that Saorla puzzles over. She practises what she will say to herself, framing the horrible news in every way she can think of that seems appropriate, and yet none seem quite right. Ultimately, she realises that there may well be no perfect way to tell him. How _does_ one inform their brother that their parents, his wife, and worst of all, his five-year-old son, have all been horribly murdered, and by a man who they all trusted like their right arms?

She has still not found an answer by the time that she retires to her tent for the night, and the question continues to keep her up for the longest time afterwards. Her last troubled thought before a surprisingly _un_ troubled sleep claims her is that they will just have to wait and see.

* * *

Fergus awakens towards the end of breakfast the next day. Leliana is on cleaning duty, and as she collects the bowls to take them down to a nearby stream and wash them, Saorla glances out of the corner of her eye at her brother and sees him stirring. She whirls around to have a proper look, and she watches as he groans and runs a hand over his face and through his hair while the fingers of his other hand clench and unclench. A smile appears on her face even as what she has to tell him looms large in her mind, and she heads over to him, kneeling at a reasonably safe distance so that he isn't excessively startled.

Her brother's eyes flicker open, and he looks this way and that as he rubs them. At first, he fails to notice her, but then finally, his eyes fall on her knees, and he removes his hand from his face as he looks up and meets her gaze. For a moment, as Saorla's smile widens, he can only stare at her, eyebrows bouncing in a way that she knows means he's quite surprised, but then he leans forward to have a closer look. His surprise is followed by recognition and then by an answering, somewhat hesitant smile of his own. " _Saorla_? Little sister? Is that you?"

She beams. There is a lightness in her chest, born of the joy and the relief she now feels, and not even what she has to say can dampen it all that much. "There's only one of me," she teases. " _Fergus_. Maker's _breath_ , it's so good to see you." She shuffles forward on her knees and reaches out to briefly put her hands on Fergus' shoulders while he slowly sits up, his smile widening into a matching grin.

"You as well," he says. "But of all the places in the world—I didn't expect to see you _here_! What are you doing here, Saorla?"

"That's an extremely long story," she admits, leaning forward on her knees. "I could ask the same of you. What happened to you, brother? How'd you end up shirtless and alone in the Korcari Wilds?"

Fergus' smile fades, replaced by a more thoughtful expression. "I was sent out here with some of my men to do some scouting before the battle that was to take place at Ostagar. It's all… I don't remember what happened very clearly… but at some point, we were ambushed by darkspawn and completely overwhelmed. Most of my men were killed. I avoided being poisoned, somehow, but I was badly injured and left for dead. No idea if any of the other survivors made it back to Ostagar. I hope they did. As for me… I woke up a while later in a Chasind hut. There were some tribesmen with me, trying to heal my injuries. I should bloody well have _stayed_ there, but my wounds became infected. I think…" He hesitates, frowning and biting his lip. "I don't remember much about this, either. I must have become delirious and wandered away, somehow. Then I happened across your camp, but I don't know how long that took or how I happened across it. By sheer _luck_ , I guess, or maybe the Maker's grace. If I'd not found you, I'd likely be dead or dying by now, so thank the Maker for coincidences! And thank _you_ for your excellent timing!" He finishes with a laugh, and Saorla chuckles.

"You're very welcome," she teases, sitting back on her knees. "Maker, Fergus, I'm glad it was no worse than that. Well, as you can see, you're much better now."

"I am," Fergus says, looking down at himself and running a hand over his newly healed wounds. "I remember… from last night… there was a face. Grey hair, grey eyes… a woman… a mage, I think? She was with me…"

Wynne interrupts. "That would be me," she says. "I did everything that I could for you. You're almost as good as new."

Fergus grins. "Thank you, kind mage," he says, bowing his head. Sincerity and light humour are mingled in his tone the way they always are with Fergus, and Saorla chuckles again as Wynne smiles.

"It was my pleasure," she tells him. "And, just as I said to your sister, there is no debt. I was only too glad to help you."

Her brother only smiles more widely, and Saorla's heart clenches as she observes it. She attempts to memorise that grin and this exact moment, for she knows that after she has said what she needs to say, Fergus will not smile like that for a very long time to come. She looks at Wynne and says, "Thank you again, Wynne. Now, pardon my abruptness, but you'll have to leave us be. I have much that I need to tell my brother and we mustn't be interrupted." Wynne bows her head gracefully, with another pleasant smile, and heads over to join in the conversation that Alistair, Leliana, and Morrigan are having near the remains of the campfire.

Saorla watches her go and then shifts her gaze to Fergus, dread rapidly overtaking her gladness and relief at his survival. He looks at her and says, "Well, I'm accounted for. What are _you_ doing out here?"

She pauses for a moment and then says, bluntly, "To put it briefly, I'm here on Grey Warden business."

Fergus frowns. "Grey Warden business? You're a Warden now?" When she nods, his frown only deepens. "I thought you told me explicitly the day I left that you didn't want to be a Warden. What changed?"

"The circumstances," Saorla says, _very_ delicately. She doesn't want to prolong the agony, but all the same, she can't just spring what happened on Fergus—that much she knows, even if she isn't sure how to tell him. "I was… all but conscripted. I _agreed_ to join, but the only other option that was available to me was death… and I like having my head on my shoulders, so I really had no choice." Almost at once, she realises that now is _not_ the time for jokes, and while Fergus smirks, the expression soon vanishes, to be replaced by one of total confusion.

"Join or die? That's… extreme. What happened, sister?" he asks.

_Here it comes…_ Saorla shudders and sucks in a deep breath. Well, no point in shying from it—all she can do is get it over with.

"What happened… it… was horrible, Fergus. The worst thing that's ever happened to me. Or to you. I can't… adequately prepare you for this. I can only warn you about it." Fergus visibly pales, but he sets his jaw and nods once. She can see no signs in his face that he suspects what she's about to tell him, and she doesn't know if that's a good thing or not.

She takes another deep breath. "All right. Do you remember how Arl Howe said that his men were delayed on account of bad weather?"

Fergus nods.

Saorla's muscles go tense, and she briefly closes her eyes as she finally gets into recounting the tale that she can only wish she did not have to recount. "That was… he was lying. He delayed his men deliberately. That night, after you were gone, Howe's men arrived at Highever… and laid siege to it." Fergus' eyes widen, but he says nothing, and so Saorla ploughs on. A slight tremble begins in her hands as she struggles against the wounds, still so fresh and painful even as she does her best to be the master of them. "Because we had only a token garrison, most of our forces being gone with you, Howe… took the castle within the hour. He took no hostages. Most of the people inside the castle were… were slaughtered. Mother Mallol… I presume she was, though I never saw her… most of the guards… Ser Gilmore, probably… Adney and Cath and our poor old nanny… Aldous… Just about the entire staff, really, bar a small handful."

Her brother's face is white as bone, and his mouth is hanging open from horror. " _Maker_ ," he breathes. "He— _why?!_ "

Saorla shakes her head. "I don't know," she says softly. "I don't even know if the 'why' even matters. But that's what he did, and that's why I joined the Grey Wardens. Duncan saved me. If I hadn't gone with him, I would have died, myself."

"Well, thank the Maker for Duncan, but—" Fergus cuts himself off suddenly, his eyes only getting wider. " _Shit!_ Is that why Father never showed up at Ostagar?! I was wondering where he was before I left for the Wilds! What did Howe _do_ to him and Mother?!"

She blinks rapidly to stop her eyes from tearing and delivers the next piece of news very quietly. "Father was mortally wounded," she says. "Mother… could have come with Duncan and me. But she stayed back with Father to buy us time to escape. Fergus… you're the new Teyrn."

Fergus stares at her for a long moment, and Saorla's heart clenches yet again as she watches the gradual realisation come over his face, followed shortly by the anguish. He slowly drops his head into his hands, and through them, she can hear him whimpering. She says nothing, knowing that the worst is yet to come and that nothing she says can adequately prepare him for it, nor herself for _delivering_ it. She can only put her hands on his shoulders again and rub comforting circles with her fingers.

After a time, Fergus looks up at her, the devastation plain to see. It is every bit as raw as her own was immediately after she and Duncan escaped the massacre, and seeing it makes the grief flare up in her chest. Frantically, she tries to beat it down, to hide it away, but in the face of her brother, her efforts are unsuccessful.

"Andraste's blood…" he whispers. "Howe, I'll _kill_ him for this… but what of Oriana? What of Oren? Please tell me that they—somehow—"

The sudden desperation and wild hope in his voice, in his eyes, in every line of his face, are almost too much to bear knowing what she must tell him, but Saorla refuses to look away from him. She steels herself as best as she can and delivers the worst news she has ever had to deliver. "Howe took no hostages," she repeats. "When Mother and I went to check on Oriana and Oren, we found that the soldiers had gone into your room first… and killed them." Her voice drops almost to a whisper. "We found them… stabbed to death. Oh, Fergus, I'm—I'm _so sorry_."

She remembers it all too clearly, sees the horrible image in her mind for what feels like thousandth time, and in the same moment, some of the last words that Fergus ever said to Oren repeat themselves. _"Don't worry, son. You'll get to see a sword up close real soon, I promise."_ She cringes and shuts her eyes briefly, her chest heaving with her effort to keep herself from crying. Her hands clench into fists, and she takes another deep breath as she looks up at Fergus and waits—for what, she doesn't quite know.

He is staring at her again, flatly, but as the seconds drag on, no hint of realisation or anguish comes into his face. He just keeps looking at her, shaking his head slightly. _Denial it is to be,_ she thinks, and she steels herself again. _I can't say I blame him._

"You're lying to me," Fergus says quietly. "This isn't true. _None_ of that happened. I'm—still delirious—still lying in that Chasind hut—and none of this has happened—none of it at all—you're lying to me! Why would you say any of that?" His tone is reproachful, and Saorla can't help but look down.

"I'm not lying," she says, her voice equally soft. "You know that I would never lie, nor jest, about something like this, Fergus."

But Fergus only shakes his head. "No," he snaps. "I will not believe you!"

She sighs and looks up, catching Bodahn's eye from across the camp. "Bodahn," she calls out, "will you bring me that chest that I gave to you for safe-keeping?"

Bodahn nods and heads around to the back of his caravan. Shortly thereafter, he emerges again, carrying the chest in question. He brings it over to them, and Saorla carefully takes it from him. She lays it on the ground and opens it, and wordlessly gestures for Fergus to look inside.

He does so. "Father's armour," he murmurs. "The family sword. The Shield of Highever. You… you only would have got these under…"

Under extreme circumstances. Saorla nods slowly and watches him. He looks from her to the chest, puts his hand inside to touch the armour, the sword, the shield. He runs his hand over all three of them, very slowly, almost languidly. She observes the movement with care and caution. For what feels like an eternity, nothing changes, but then his hand freezes on the hilt of the sword.

At once, she returns her gaze to his face—and she can see it. The realisation. The precise moment where it hits him that this is no lie, no joke, no dream born of his delirium. It is soft and subtle, found only in the merest raising of his eyebrows, the way he ever so slightly clenches his jaw, and the narrowing of his eyes, but it is _there_ , and she swallows the urge to scream.

Then, very abruptly, it disappears.

And then there is nothing there—no grief, no anger, no denial—nothing at all. Fergus' face is utterly blank. Saorla watches him, grimacing slightly, as he retracts his hand and sits back. His eyes are staring _through_ her now, gazing at nothing. There is nothing more to be read in his body language, either—he is limp and loose, much like a corpse. Sitting there, waiting for and expecting nothing.

"What happened at Ostagar?" he asks, finally. His voice is monotonous.

Saorla understands then what he is doing, and she cannot blame him. He has shut down, just as she did during the attack—hiding her emotions, refusing to experience them, pushing them all to one side so that she might think more clearly. It is different for Fergus, she can tell, but she recognises it all the same, and so she does not try to persuade him to feel. She only resettles herself and begins to tell the entire story from just before her arrival at Ostagar to the fatal battle.

When she informs him of Teyrn Loghain's actions and the massacre that ensued, Fergus finally focuses his gaze on her, but there is still nothing to be found in it. "So, Teyrn Loghain showed himself a traitor as well and left everyone to be slaughtered, did he?" he asks dully. "Did everyone in Ferelden turn into a treacherous bastard while my back was turned?"

She grimaces again. "Not everyone, I hope," she says. "Just some of the important people." She tells him the rest of the story up till her awakening in Flemeth's hut in the Wilds.

"So," Fergus says at the end. "The King is dead and has no successor. Loghain and Howe have shown themselves to be traitors. Loghain is regent. There's a Blight coming. And probably a civil war, too, because of what he did. _Spectacular._ This really could not be better. And you're… what? What's your part in this?"

Saorla tells him of the treaties that she and Alistair found in the Wilds, of how they intend to use them to unite the whole of Ferelden against the Blight, and of how they have already secured the support of the Circle of Magi and will eventually be involving the elves and dwarves. Fergus listens in stone-cold silence, nodding here and there. When she has done, he purses his lips.

"Right. Well. That's hardly a foolproof plan," he says, still in that same monotone. "But since it's the only one we've got, I guess it'll have to do. Anything else I should know?"

"One more thing that I can think of," she tells him. "Howe is apparently now Loghain's right-hand man."

Fergus snorts bitterly. "A traitor working for a traitor. There is something distinctly fitting in that," he remarks. "Well, I guess that means I'd not be wanted in Denerim, too. So much for that. And with the Blight and the civil war, I don't suppose anywhere will be safe. Hmm."

"What are you thinking?" she asks.

Her brother sighs and leans forward, his gaze shifting from the rest of the party in the background back to Saorla. "I'm thinking that there's nowhere else for me to go," he says. "I understand that you've already got quite a few people here, and maybe you don't want more. But if it's all the same to you, sister, I'd like to join you. You're… all I've got left, it seems, and maybe I can help you. I can take up the sword, and you can ready your bow, and we can slaughter darkspawn together. Or… well, I'm sure you know what I mean. If you'll have me along, that is." The tone of his voice varies not once, and Saorla can't help but shudder even as she smiles.

"I wouldn't _dream_ of saying no, brother," she says warmly. "Of course you can join me! I could do with having somebody who I know I can trust and who is at least _somewhat_ sane, Maker…"

Fergus looks at her. "I don't feel very sane right now," he says. The words are cold, and Saorla cringes as she realises how poorly timed her remark was. If nothing else, it's not as if Fergus _knows_ about how… eclectic the party is. He will soon enough, of course, but he doesn't _now_.

"I'm sorry," she says hastily, "I shouldn't have said that. But I'm very happy to have you along, yes." She reaches out to put her hands on his shoulders again.

He gazes at her for a moment, and then grabs her and pulls her further forward, straight into his arms. Saorla shivers and rests her head on his shoulder as he almost crushes her with his embrace; she does much the same to him. They say and do nothing beyond this, but she can feel Fergus shaking—the only sign that he has given thus far of what must be a veritable storm of emotions raging inside him. She holds him and tries to tell him through her touch alone that she is here with him, that they are both alive, that there is still hope and a fighting chance, for such things brought her great comfort after the massacre and continue to do so now, but she doubts that any of it gets through to him. This does not surprise her. Fergus does not handle grief as she does, and what comfort can she provide to a man who has just lost practically _everything_?

Eventually, Fergus pulls away from her, and Saorla stares worriedly at him as he moves to get up. "Let me put on the armour. I guess there's no time to waste." She lets go of him and stands up, and she watches as Fergus reaches into the chest and pulls out their father's armour.

Soon enough, he is fully equipped. The armour fits him well; the family sword is secure in its sheath and the Shield of Highever the same on his back. He looks down at himself, grimacing faintly. "Father's armour, not mine," he says. There is still no change in his voice. "I feel like a child playing at the games of a grown-up."

For want of anything to say—not knowing what _to_ say—Saorla reaches out and pats him on the shoulder again, a gesture that she knows is woefully inadequate. "I'm sure that you'll do fine, Fergus," she says. Once again, the words are not enough—no more than a vain platitude—but she cannot think of anything else. Another faint grimace flickers across his face, and he sighs. "Let's just get going," she adds. "I'll introduce you to the rest of the party along the way. Everyone, it's time to pack up camp! Let's get moving!" she shouts, turning around to address the others. They immediately move to obey, and Fergus trails after her as Saorla heads over to take down her tent.

_Maker, how terrible,_ she thinks as she does so. _But remember that you are both alive. There is still a fighting chance. You had given him up for dead, but he has come back to you by the grace of the Maker. Mother and Father wanted you to live, to make your mark on the world, to do them proud—the same must apply to Fergus, as well. You have a duty to do, and you must not abrogate it. Remember all that, and you will remember that there is still, always, hope._

* * *

At the close of the day, she sits before the campfire, stretching her legs and groaning. It's been a long day's walk, and they've not made as much progress as she would have liked, but they should be out of the Korcari Wilds and on their way to Soldier's Peak tomorrow. The thought of that particular journey worries her, for they'll be going from one end of the country to the other. Still, she'll be glad to cross one more task off the list that seems to be perpetually glaring at her from where it lies beside her, next to the roster of duties that she has just added Fergus to.

Fergus' introduction to the party did not go too terribly, all things considered, though it certainly could have been better. He was almost at once hostile to Morrigan and Shale, ambivalent towards Sten (and she has no doubt that this will turn to hostility once he learns of Sten's crimes), and curious about Zevran—after all, Oriana had told him a fair bit about the Crows. That lasted until he found out how Saorla came to recruit him, at which point his curiosity turned to aggression, and he momentarily questioned her sanity. He was relieved to see Lorcan again and was coolly polite towards Alistair and Leliana, while Wynne needed no real introducing, but his attitude towards even her had shifted; he did not answer her smiles with his own, not now, and he scarcely said two words to her.

Not terrible, but not great, although she hardly expected anything less. Part of her thinks it is just as well that so few were interested in being friendly with him, else Fergus' coldness and disconnection might have caused unnecessary trouble. Nevertheless, Saorla remembers the man who was her brother, the boisterous warrior who prayed for ale and wenches in front of Oriana and Oren and their parents and who would surely have made easy friends with Alistair, Leliana, and Wynne at least, and her heart aches. _Damn Howe,_ she thinks, _for what he has done. Damn him for taking what my brother loved the most. Damn him for ruining it all._

As she mulls this over, she notices Alistair approaching her out of the corner of her eye. Shaking her head as if to cleanse it of her thoughts, Saorla looks up, offering him an easy smile and trying to ignore the odd twist in her gut that she doesn't much want to think about right now. The smile fades when she notices the concern on Alistair's face, and she leans forward, furrowing her brow.

"You may want to check on your brother," he says carefully. "I was just relieving myself down by the river and—he didn't see me there but—well, he seemed quite upset. Let's put it that way."

Saorla nods and rises to her feet. "I was expecting that," she admits. "Thank you, Alistair. I'll go see him right now." As she walks off, she notes the concern on his face again, and part of her is cheered that he feels such worry for a man whom he's only just met. But she ignores the thought. After all, everyone else is irrelevant to this situation bar herself and, to a lesser extent, Lorcan. Still, Lorcan is sleeping by the campfire, and she sees no reason to disturb him.

It's not long before she is beyond the boundaries of the camp, heading down a gentle slope towards the sound of lapping water. She feels no dread this time, knowing all along that this was coming; she only metaphorically squares her shoulders and prepares to deal with a man in the last extremity of anguish.

She comes to a halt near a tree and quickly spots Fergus kneeling on the ground at the bank of the river, his face buried in his hands. He shakes more violently than he did when they embraced this morning, his shoulders heaving with quiet sobs, and Saorla watches and listens for a time. He'd be loath to admit it, but this is not the first time that she has heard Fergus cry. She can think of several instances over the years where he had wept unabashedly, one of the most notable of them being when Oriana had been giving birth to Oren six years ago. Fergus, nineteen then, had been getting steadily more overwhelmed as Oriana's pregnancy drew to its close, and while they were all waiting for her to give birth, he had finally given up any pretence at keeping calm and cried—appropriately—like a baby. He had settled down by the time someone came to tell them that Oren was born, but Oriana said later that at first sight of their son, he had started crying all over _again_ , something that Fergus had always stringently denied.

Still, those were tears of joy and fear, Saorla remembers—not of grief. She has seen Fergus cry openly before, and she has seen him grieve from time to time, but never like _this_ , and never for such a cause as this, either. People have spoken to her before of how the worst nightmare one can face is to outlive their child; she had listened but had never much heeded the thought. Now it is a nightmare that her brother must endure, all at the same time as mourning his wife and their parents.

She walks forward cautiously, and when she is standing at Fergus' side, she kneels next to him. He must have heard her approach, but he does not look up, and she leans against him with equal care, not wanting to upset him further. Thankfully, he does not flinch away from her, and Saorla rests her head gently on his shoulder, rubbing circles on his back as Fergus weeps into his hands. What she can see of his face is pale, blotchy, and tear-streaked; his eyes must be red as fire behind their lids. Part of her thinks that he looks worse now than he did when he had the fever.

Eventually, Fergus' crying ceases for a moment, and Saorla seizes the opportunity to tighten her grip on him and speak. "Do you want to talk?" she asks gently.

Fergus finally drops his hands and looks up at her; she has few words to describe the agony she can see in his face, and she feels her own eyes tear almost reflexively. She blinks. "If there's no one else around, then yes," he says. His voice is thick.

"Go on, then," she urges. "Anything—the first thing that comes to your mind."

He looks away from her, turning his gaze to some point in the distance, far beyond the river. For a moment, he is silent, then he says, "The first thing… I keep thinking… It doesn't make a lot of sense, but… just this morning, when I woke up, I… had everything. It was confusing seeing you out here, but I didn't… suspect anything. Everything was fine, both at home and in the world at large. But then you spoke to me, and told me… and everything was gone. Just like that. In minutes, I lost it all… with those words… It doesn't make sense, I _know_ it doesn't make sense, but…!" He breaks into tears again, and Saorla wraps her arm around and squeezes him comfortingly.

"It doesn't have to make sense," she soothes. "I'm not judging; you know I'd never do that. But I can understand. It all took… it was all done within an hour. I kept thinking, as I escaped with Duncan and Lorcan, about how I'd had it all an hour, two hours ago, but then I just… did not. Maker, it was a horrible sensation."

"Was?"

Saorla shrugs. "I… dealt with it eventually. Put it away. I indulged myself for a while, but I knew that at some point, I would have to stop thinking about how I'd had everything a few days past, a few weeks past, nearly a month past. I've had more important things to focus on since then. Not to say that it was _easy_ , disconnecting myself from that sensation—so to speak—but it's what I did." She has always been good at coping with everything that the world threw at her. Even _this_ is no exception. She knows fine well that she is lucky to be alive; her parents wanted her to live; she has a duty to do; there is still hope—she will not squander any of these silver linings on despair.

Fergus looks down. "You make it sound easy. I wish I had that strength…"

"Fergus, you've only just learned about it. You've only had a day to process it. We're at different points."

"I suppose so." He looks up again, eyes still shining. "Maker, I wish I'd stayed. Stayed and defended them all to my last breath. Stayed and saved Oriana and Oren. Stayed and killed Howe, even if it meant my death. Or that I'd insisted on Father riding with me to Ostagar. Something… any- _anything_ …"

He speaks almost the exact words that the darker, inevitable, more selfish part of Saorla's nature has been throwing around in her head since the attack. They are words with which she is very well-acquainted, and so they are words that she is readily equipped to refute. "I've wished for much the same in the first case," she says firmly. She grasps Fergus' chin and makes him look at her. "But I know that if I had stayed, I'd have died and left you utterly alone in the world. If you had stayed and defended us to your last breath and still failed to save Oriana and Oren, the entire line might well have died right there, just as Howe wanted. And if Father had ridden to Ostagar with you… well, as I said, it was a total massacre. He might have avoided dying at Highever only to die at Ostagar." It is a terrible thought that their father might well have been doomed either way, and Fergus visibly flinches, but—

"That much is true," he admits, voice shaking. He rubs his forehead. "But I cannot help but wish for it, regardless. What if… what if…"

She would tell him that what-ifs are as pointless now as they always have been, but such a statement would be of no comfort to him. Indeed, it would most likely upset him further. There have been times in the past where her quick and almost ruthless methods of coping with and moving on from situations have caused contention between them, and she would hardly be surprised if such a conflict arose up between them now over this, only worse. Now is _not_ the time to set the fire going, and so she keeps rubbing his shoulder, squeezing him tightly.

After a long while, Fergus speaks again. "I hope…" he whispers, voice even thicker than before as he talks through his tears, "I hope that… I don't know if Grey Wardens are allowed to get married and have families. Let's just say they are. I hope that… if you get married and have children…" He looks at her, tears streaming down his face again. "I hope that you _love_ your husband, just as much as I loved Oriana… and I hope that you never know _this_ , this pain… this _feeling_ in my chest, oh _Maker!_ " He doubles up, almost, his hand clutching at his chest like he is in physical agony, and she holds him still tighter, a few stray tears slipping from her own eyes as his sobbing starts all over again. Through it, she can sometimes hear him gasp Oren's name, and she knows well enough to what the pain in his chest that he mentioned refers.

She doesn't know how long they kneel there, Fergus crying into her chest while she rubs his back soothingly and all but ignores the tears rolling down her own face, the grief roaring up within her. It is not about her pain tonight; it cannot be. It is about Fergus'; it is about that of the man who lost everything while his back was turned and so much more than she did— _the day after his birthday,_ she remembers, and she winces. Her own pain, she will deal with in private, as she always does. For now, Fergus must receive the entirety of her attention. She holds him and quietly grieves with him, and even the things that she has to comfort her feel very far away right now.

"I want to be dead," Fergus gasps out eventually.

Something goes tight in her chest for the thousandth time today. "Don't _ever_ say that," she tells him, voice firm.

" _I want to be dead,_ " he repeats, and Saorla groans and buries her face in his hair, holding him even more tightly, if such is even possible. Once again, she tries to tell him that there is still hope and a fighting chance through her touch alone, but once again, she is sure that she fails. "I want to be _with_ them. I don't want—I can't—I—" Fergus shakes his head, and Saorla pulls away to look him in the eye.

He holds her gaze. "I don't understand how you do this," he says. "You have always been strong, that much is not in question, but I watched you all day. You acted in much the same way as you did back home. You talked, you laughed, you shared jokes, and I could tell that you lead this party admirably. But how? I expected you to get distracted, or to falter, or—or _something_. But there was nothing. It's like—nothing happened. I don't understand."

She lets out a breath and pulls further away to lean back on her knees, considering her answer. After a time, she says, "It's as it has always been. You know me, Fergus. This is what I'm good at—holding my emotions at bay until I can deal with them alone and in private. What you saw me do today—it was nothing unlike what I've done before. I was keeping my emotions in control, bottling them up until I could be alone—or alone with you. I can't really explain it further—it's just how it is for me. Coping is just… something I'm good at. Even with this. Probably just as well—somebody has to hold on to their sanity."

Fergus nods slowly. "I… envy you. Almost. This strength—I've never had it. But there must be more to it than that."

Saorla shrugs. "I've… had things that have given me hope. Right after I escaped the massacre, I started looking for them, and I found them, and I've been clinging on to them ever since. The fact that I am alive thanks to Duncan's aid and the grace of the Maker—that is comforting. I know I am very lucky to be alive, and I won't waste my luck on falling into despair. The fact that you were returned to me when I had given you up for dead because of what happened at Ostagar—that is comforting. It means there is hope yet for us. And I have a duty to do now that must not be abrogated—that gives me more of the strength I need to carry on. And before I had to leave them, Mother and Father—they asked things of me. Father… said that I would live and make my mark on the world. Mother said that I would live, too—that I should do what is right. And Father… the last words he said to me were, 'Go, then, pup. Warn your brother… and know that we love you both. You do us proud.'" Her voice wavers as she quotes the words, but she gets it back under control quickly enough. "So that's what I'll do. They want me to live, _and so I shall live_. I shall live, and I shall conquer this, and I shall take the world that is waiting for me. And those words, what they said—you know that they apply to you, too, Fergus. They would want you to live. As would Oriana."

She speaks the words fiercely, with all the pride and strength and conviction for which she was reputed in Highever, and they have more of an effect than she had hoped: she sees a spark start in Fergus' eyes even despite their wetness. "You… speak well," he says slowly. "I can almost believe that all is not lost, listening to you. Well, I doubt it'll be so easy for me, but… perhaps you are right. Perhaps I should try… for their sake, if nothing else. Try to play the hero that Oren always wanted me to be."

Saorla grins despite herself. "Exactly. Think of it—helping to end a Blight _and_ a civil war? They'd all be so proud of you! It's something to aspire to, isn't it?"

"I suppose," Fergus admits. His voice is steadier now, and he dries his eyes with the back of his hand as he takes a deep, steadying breath. "And justice must be done. When we find Howe, I _want his head_."

"And you will have it," she says. "With you in the picture, Howe's life is not mine to take. But we can't let this get in the way of our other goals, remember?"

Fergus nods. "I'll… try to remember."

"Good." She dries her own eyes and smiles hesitantly at her brother, who naturally does not smile back but, at least, appears much calmer than he did before. It is enough for tonight. "Would you like to pray? I can chant a verse from the Canticle of Trials if you like. Or all of it."

"You still have your faith? Mine is… shaking," Fergus says.

"Mine is, as well," she says. "Perhaps not so much as yours, true, but it is. I think it was… seeing you again that strengthened it. I mean, I'd still been clinging onto it before, but as I said, I'd given you up for dead. When you came back to me, and when you explained what happened to you… I can only assume that the Maker, or Andraste perhaps, decided to show us at least _some_ mercy. It's almost enough for me."

He considers that. "That much is true. Then… yes, I suppose I'd like to hear a verse or two. I'm still amazed you managed to memorise the _entire_ Canticle of Trials."

She chuckles. "I am, too, sometimes. I remember Mother Mallol wouldn't stop going on about it for weeks after my first full Chanting; she was so impressed. Well, which one do you want to hear?"

"Trials 1," Fergus says almost immediately. "All of it."

"Very well." She pauses for a moment, takes a deep breath, calls the Canticle of Trials into her head, finds and holds Fergus' gaze again, and then begins to chant.

She has chanted the vast majority of Trials 1—all bar the last three verses—when Fergus joins in. Their voices quickly fall into harmony with each other, and as they chant, Saorla feels the storm of grief and pain within her go calm. " _Though all before me is shadow,_ " they murmur, " _yet shall the Maker be my guide. I shall not be left to wander the drifting roads of the Beyond. For there is no darkness in the Maker's Light, and nothing that He has wrought shall be lost._ " This has always been her favourite verse of the Canticle, and one of her favourites of the entire Chant of Light, and even now, it brings her the most comfort. She can see from the expression on Fergus' face that it brings him comfort, too, and this is the important thing.

When they have finished, Fergus blows out a long breath and relaxes his tense muscles. Saorla watches him as he briefly closes his eyes, the grief fading from his face to be replaced by something else—not quite peace, of course, but a kind of calm that indicates that the storm has passed for now. "Thank you," he says. "That did help. Perhaps my faith is not as weak as I thought… I don't know."

She smiles. "Will you be all right for tonight, brother?"

"I… think so. I'm well enough to go back, at any rate. And I think we should. The others might be starting to wonder."

"No doubt." Saorla gets to her feet and pulls Fergus to his, and while he still does not smile, he offers her a single nod. For the time being, that is enough. They head away from the river back in the direction that she came, and the silence between them is comfortable, yet full of meaning. They are all that remains, the only family that the other has left in the world, and among the very few things that both know for sure that they can rely on. They will stay together and take on the world together.

_What a pair we shall be,_ Saorla thinks as they cross the boundary of the camp again. _A troubled pair, too, no doubt. But he is here. He is alive, and well, and here with me. And he has taken Mother and Father's words to heart and knows that he has a duty to do, just as I do. There is a chance for him still, a fighting chance. There is… hope._

It is enough for now.


End file.
